Into the Light
by RougeAngleOfSatin
Summary: Three days after Madara takes his brother's eyes as his own, Hashirama comes to him. [Hashirama/Madara.]


**A/N:** Written for day three of the hashimadaminibang on tumblr for the theme "Hurt & Comfort."

**Warnings:** Blood, mild violence, dead Izuna.

* * *

The night before the funeral Madara sits up with the corpse, staring into the open coffin at his brother's face. Izuna is repulsively pale in death, his skin almost indistinguishable from his white kimono and the bandages that conceal the hollows where his eyes should be. His serene expression is at odds with the painful nature of his demise. He even appears to be smiling slightly, though Madara knows it's nothing more than decomposition at work. Masked beneath the scent of sandalwood incense, the stench of rotting meat rises from the body, and it sickens Madara as none of the brutalities he commits in battle manage to. Bile sears his throat.

He passes the night in silence, straining his eyes until they water for a decent glimpse of Izuna. But his eyes fail him – his vaunted Mangekyō has robbed him of the ability to discern anything but silhouettes and splashes of colour. Maybe it's better this way – he can clearly see Izuna alive in his mind's eye, and the desire to see his remains is nothing more than a way to remind himself of his failure (as if he needs it) to protect what's important to him.

When dawn arrives he's awake to meet it, and the coffin is borne out onto the moorland and the waiting pyre. Burying him would be easier – it's a simple earth jutsu to make a hole, and wood is hard to come by – but Madara was raised to tradition. His hands are steady as he places the six coins for Izuna's passage to the afterlife and lights the pyre.

Once the last grey ribbon of smoke has drifted off to the heavens, one of his many cousins deems him safe to approach. "Madara-sama, they are ready for you."

_Izuna's face is twisted in agony, and when he coughs his palm comes away speckled with blood. "I want you to have them Oniisan. Take my eyes, and protect our clan."_

"_Izuna—"_

"_Promise me."_

"Yes," Madara vows to the extinguished pyre.

* * *

Three nights after Madara takes his brother's eyes as his own, Hashirama comes to him. He infiltrates the camp under cover of darkness and thunder, his chakra so carefully muted that Madara hasn't an inkling of his presence until he feels the draft from the tent flap opening. He lies still in his bedroll, mimicking the steady breathing of one deeply asleep, and listens.

The healer woman who changes his bandages won't come until morning, and he knows he hasn't lain awake through the night because he would've heard the watch change over. Besides that the strides that make their way towards his bed are too long and heavy.

They are also familiar.

His breath catches when he finally feels it. _That chakra_. How well he knows it – warm green like sunlit leaves and so _immense_ it's a wonder one body could contain so much life. For years he's hunted it across battlefields, excitement coursing through him at every distant flicker as he goes in pursuit of the one person in this world who makes him feel truly alive. He's shaking beneath the blankets. It isn't _entirely_ from the urge to get up and fight – his skin prickles with the awareness that he will be much easier to kill without his eyes. Madara has never been afraid of death, but that Hashirama should come upon him like this, blind and vulnerable, it's all wrong and it enrages him.

Madara throws back the covers and get to his feet. His lip curls into a snarl. "Come to put me out of my misery?"

The footsteps stop. Silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the sound of driving rain against the canvas. "Your chakra is different," Hashirama says, quietly.

_He doesn't see, he doesn't know yet,_ Madara thinks. His new eyes are still adjusting, and even the light of the dimmest candle burns them. Since the transplant he hasn't left this tent, one canvas stretched over the top of another to block out the sun. _In this darkness, Hashirama is as blind as I am. _"Why are you here?" he demands.

"You weren't on the battlefield," says Hashirama, as if that explains it, as if checking up on the health of your worst enemy is totally normal. "And," he hesitates slightly, "neither was Izuna."

Madara moves without even thinking about it. _How DARE he—_

The _crunch_ Hashirama's nose makes when his fist smashes into it is all the more satisfying because he correctly calculated its location only by the sound of the Senju's voice. Wet warmth spatters across his knuckles. He doesn't let up and sets about trying to break the _rest _of Hashirama's bones (because how _dare_ he mention Izuna – when he – when _that brother_ _of his_ –! ) but he only gets in one more blow before Hashirama fights back and soon Madara's disability works against him. They grapple, and topple onto something solid that collapses beneath their combined weight with a crack.

Splintered wood needles his back and the whispering of scattered papers informs him he will need a new map table. Snarling, he is attempting to stab Hashirama in the eyes with his thumbs when the table beneath him lurches. Thick creepers grow out of the woodwork and squeeze the breath from him, binding his arms, legs and torso.

Hashirama's breath is hot against his face. Blood drips onto Madara's chin. "I'm sorry."

"Fuck you and your apologies Senju – my brother is _dead_, because _your_ brother killed him!" Madara strains against his bonds and lies there trembling when they fail to break. _"Get off me."_

For a few moments there is nothing but the sound of his own ragged breathing. Then:

"Your eyes…" Madara flinches slightly when Hashirama's fingers brush his cheek as they touch the bandages. His voice is so quiet and mystified Madara knows he's guessed.

"He left them to me," he says, and pretends it's anger that makes his voice uneven. "They're…all that remain of him."

"They're bleeding."

Izuna's eyes have not stopped bleeding since they were put into his skull. Day and night they weep until the bandages are crusted and filthy. Now the cloth is saturated and somewhat displaced from their tussle. Streaks of wetness run down Madara's cheeks and mingle with Hashirama's blood. Madara clenches his teeth and turns away.

"Those dressings are disgusting," Hashirama says. "You'll get an infection."

"Why do you care?" Madara says. He stiffens when the mokuton unwraps itself from him with a series of creaks. _What is Hashirama doing now?_

Hashirama acts as if he never heard the question. The heat of his body moves away. "It offends me as a medic to see you in this state. Don't move," he orders, "I'm going to change them."

The same hands which have broken his bones and torn scars into his flesh are tender as they cup the back of his skull and unwind the dirty bandages. Hashirama swabs congealed blood away from his swollen eyelids with utmost care. Madara cringes at the kindness; it confuses him, causes him to doubt himself. This kindness may have saved Izuna but for his own stubbornness. If he had ignored him and followed his own desires…

On impulse he gropes through air until his palm meets Hashirama's cheek with a soft pat. Hashirama's hands stop in the middle of knotting the new bandages behind his head and settle warmly at his nape. Madara maps Hashirama's face with his fingertips, cheeks, nose, eyes (Hashirama's slight flinch doesn't escape him and Madara smiles wickedly in response), chin, mouth…

Hashirama's hands find his own and draw them away. When lips press softly against his, he isn't startled as he ought to be. It's a betrayal of all he's been raised to believe in, and not a person apart from themselves would understand.

But that's all right.

* * *

**A/N:** Question: In your opinon, was the ending okay, or did it come off as too abrupt?


End file.
